


To These Memories I Will Hold

by six6string



Category: Fence (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Post-Canon, how much symbolism can i shove into this?, im so sorry, no beta we die like idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/six6string/pseuds/six6string
Summary: “Do you need something?” A voice asks from behind him.He rubs the back of his head, suddenly feeling slightly nervous. “I was, uh,” he says, “I was looking for something to give to my boyfriend. Do you have any suggestions?”(He’s lying, but he can’t bring himself to voice the truth.)
Relationships: Aiden Kane/Harvard Lee
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	To These Memories I Will Hold

**Author's Note:**

> title from the last goodbye by billy boyd

Harvard calls in sick that Tuesday, claiming he has a cold. His boss doesn’t even question it, simply telling him to rest and get better soon. Harvard coughs and says he plans to spend the whole day in bed. He doesn’t actually have a cold, of course, but he has enough sick days saved up that he can use one for this. 

(He needs to use one for this.)

He slides out of bed and pads over to the kitchen. His toes curl involuntarily against the cold tile as he fills up the coffee pot with the last of the cheap grounds he bought last time he was at the store. Then he turns to the fridge to find something to eat. The fridge is empty except for a few containers of old takeout, so he grabs one at random. 

He can almost hear Aiden groaning in the background. 

(It was harder, the first few months. He would set the table for two, cook for two, make enough coffee for two, and then turn around and be reminded that there was no ‘two’ now.)

(He doesn’t do that anymore.)

There’s no sound except for the steady drip of the coffee pot as he eats cold ramen with a pair of chopsticks he found shoved in the bottom of the junk drawer. He doesn’t even sit down, instead leaning on the counter and staring into his food.

(Kally calls. He ignores it.)

Eventually his coffee is done, and he pours himself a cup, sipping it slowly while he gazes out onto the street below the window. The apartment is fairly high up, and from here, the people crowding the streets on their way to work look like nothing more than ants. He moves closer to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass. For a moment, he can almost imagine that he’s falling. Down, down, down, the wind rushing past him, never quite reaching the bottom. But eventually, the view just makes him dizzy, and he drags himself away. 

After finishing his coffee, he puts his dishes in the sink, ignoring the other dishes still there from the night before. He goes to grab his coat and scarf and wallet, knowing that he can’t put it off any longer. The coat is black with a thick fleece lining, a present from Aiden on their anniversary a few years ago. In the pocket, he finds the tickets stubs from the movie they went to see right before everything happened. 

(He almost throws the stubs out. But he just can’t make his fingers let go.)

He locks the apartment door behind him, checking the handle three times to make sure that it’s  _ really _ locked. The brass of the handle has been worn down over the years, no longer shiny and bright like it was when Harvard and Aiden first moved in. How many years has it been? He can hardly remember. It almost seems as if they’ve lived their whole lives in Apt. 742, crammed into three tiny rooms, with a view of the busy streets below. Sometimes they would just spend hours sitting by the window, watching the world move past below them. Aiden always loved to point out the strangest things to Harvard, or to start up games counting the number of blue cars on the street below. He was always looking for something, it seemed, something to add a little more mystique to their day-to-day existence.

He never seemed quite satisfied in Apt. 742. Some days Harvard would catch him looking at pictures of faraway places on his laptop, or staring off past the horizon. Harvard would always touch his arm, or lace their hands together, or kiss his cheek and Aiden would snap out of it. He would laugh, and pull Harvard closer, but there was still something in his eyes...

Harvard shakes his head and makes his way to the elevator, punching the button for the lobby. The elevator begins to sink down, soft jazz music coming from the speakers above his head. He watches his warped reflection in the mirror, marveling at the distortion. How can he possibly look so thin?

As soon as the elevator doors open, he hurries through the lobby and onto the street. People rush past him, bundled up in coats and heavy scarves, talking on phones and carrying briefcases. He stops still for a moment, eyes glancing up and down the busy street, taking a deep breath of the chilly air. He adjusts his scarf, shoves his hands in his pockets, then turns and begins to head up the street. 

The subway station is only a block away, and he hurries down the stairs just in time to catch a train heading uptown. People are packed into the subway car like sardines, and Harvard ends up standing, pressed against a businessman talking loudly on the phone. Harvard holds tight to the yellow strap above his head as the train begins to move. Whenever they would take the subway together, Aiden would always use the movement to dramatically fall against Harvard, laughing as Harvard grumbled and tried to shove him off. 

A few stops later, Harvard gets off the train and heads back up to the street. It’s quiet uptown, far less busy than it is in the area around their apartment.

(His apartment.)

(It’s just his apartment now.)

He makes his way up the street, steps slow and measured. The rhythm calms him a little bit in it’s familiarity. The leather of his boots squeaks slightly, reminding him that they’re still not fully broken in. He steps through a puddle as he turns left and heads down a narrower street lined with small shops. He passes a bakery, scents of cinnamon and spices floating out onto the street in wafts of warm air. He passes a bookstore, glancing at the titles in the window. He catches sight of the cover of the book Aiden was reading the week after they moved in together. He walks past a few other places, too, before finally arriving in front of the flower shop. 

Large bouquets are arranged neatly in metal cans, small chalkboard signs displaying names and prices. The air around the shop smells sickly sweet, as if someone had sprayed it with an exorbitant amount of perfume. Harvard moves slowly, trying to take everything in. His hands clench inside his jacket pockets. He takes a deep breath.

“Do you need something?” A voice asks from behind him, and he turns around to see a young woman wearing a green apron smiling up at him. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a professional-looking ponytail, which swings back and forth as she watches him expectantly. 

He rubs the back of his head, suddenly feeling slightly nervous. “I was, uh,” he says, “I was looking for something to give to my boyfriend. Do you have any suggestions?”

(He’s lying, but he can’t bring himself to voice the truth.)

She brightens. “We just got a bunch of carnations, if you like. They’re really gorgeous. And red roses are always a classic as well.”

“Carnations sound good.”

She rings him up and hands him the bouquet. The carnations look so fragile, ruffles of pink petals streaked through with red, almost as if they’re bleeding. The plastic wrap around the stems crinkles under Harvard’s grip as he takes them, gripping the stems tight in his fist. The shopkeeper thanks him and he leaves, carrying his bouquet in one hand.

He never gave Aiden a bouquet before. Aiden received plenty of roses and all sorts of things from his legions of admirers, but Harvard never bought him flowers. Aiden never bought Harvard flowers, either. It was like some unspoken rule of their relationship. 

(If you give me something, don’t give me something that dies.)

He walks up the street a few blocks, the route traced into his memory on a cold, rainy day precisely a year ago. He hasn’t been able to come back since. People pass by him, hurrying to a thousand different places. No one pays the man with the bouquet of carnations any mind. At most, they quickly glance at him before moving on. He feels like something other, a ghost floating through a sea of the living. Unable to interact, only able to watch. He clenches the bouquet tighter in this hand, as if to remind himself that he’s still corporal.

He turns another corner just as his phone begins ding with a slew of incoming text messages.

_ hey r u up yet? _

_ i kno what today is, do u want some company _

_ r u going to visit him? _

_ nvrmnd i already know _

_ hey answer me _

_ i kno ur seeing this _

_ r u ok??? _

_ harvard please _

_ were worried abt u _

_ fucking answer me _

_ h a r v a r d _

_ he was my friend too _

_ u shouldnt b alone right now _

_ harvard please answer _

_ please _

He puts his phone on silent and sticks it back in his pocket.

(He knows he’s not being fair. He knows his friends are worried. He knows that he doesn’t have a monopoly on grief.)

(But he needs to be alone for this.)

The closer he gets, the heavier his feet feel. By the time the gates come into view, he can almost imagine he’s wading through concrete, struggling with step after step after step. It’s like his body is telling him to stay away, stay away, because this can’t be real. By the time he’s close enough to read the words etched into the gates, he wants to fall to his knees and just stay there. 

Kingshill Memorial Park.

He makes it through the gates, pushing against a thousand memories that wrap like irons around his ankles. The moment he steps over the threshold, into the cemetery… the moment he crosses over into the domain of the dead, it feels all too real.

(It’s been a year. A whole year of going to sleep in an empty bed, a year of waking up alone. It’s been a year of drowning in memories and knowing that he’ll never have a chance to make more.)

He trudges up the hill, bouquet still held loosely in one hand. Headstones are scattered around the cemetery in a seemingly random order, forming strange, twisting paths. They come in all shapes and sizes, from small rocks set into the ground to the huge crypt at the crown of the hill. A few pomegranate trees are interspersed among the headstones, branches so heavy with freshly ripened fruit that they scrape the ground with long limbs. A few pomegranates have fallen from the trees and litter the ground, beginning to rot. The hollowing shells give off a smell almost like alcohol. 

He climbs the hill slowly, eyes flitting from inscription to inscription as his feet take him ever closer to the only one he doesn’t want to read. 

_ AIDEN KANE _

_ To you and me; so take the lively air,  _

_ And, lovely, learn by going where to go. _

He sets the flowers down gently in front of the headstone. The bright pink stands out starkly against the dull gray of the rock. He lowers himself to the ground and sits cross legged, resting his hands in his lap. He takes a deep breath, trying to swallow back the prickling in his throat. He wrings his hands for a moment, pulling on his fingers nervously, then opens his mouth.

“I-,” his voice cracks, and he stops, swallowing again and trying to shove down the rising tide of emotions welling up inside of him.

“Hey,” he begins again. He can almost imagine Aiden sitting perched on the headstone in front of him. In Harvard’s mind, he’s still wearing his old King’s Row uniform, his honey-colored hair loose and brushing against his shoulders. One leg is crossed over the other, and his chin is propped up on his hand. He’s smiling like he always was, grinning with the knowledge that he can get away with almost anything. His green eyes glint as he looks Harvard up and down. 

(He’s never going to be able to look in those eyes ever again.)

“It’s been a year,” Harvard says. He takes another deep breath. “Y’know, since… since everything happened. God, I hate saying that. It seems so cheesy. Like something out of a movie. But it also makes it seem like you’re listening, so...”

“It’s weird, I think, that everyday I wake up and it’s the longest I’ve ever gone without you.” He stops for a moment, fiddling with the petals of the carnations. They feel like satin under his fingertips, but they tear like tissue paper. He has to consciously pull his hand away to keep from destroying any more. “And I still wake up and think that you’re going to be lying next to me. I really liked waking up next to you, did you know that? I don’t think I ever got a chance to tell you.”

“Everyone misses you. Even your dad, I caught him crying after the memorial. Tanner didn’t leave his room for three days after he got the news.”

Harvard pulls his knees into his chest and wraps his arms tight around them. The chill in the air numbs his fingers and cheeks, and he wishes fervently that he had remembered to bring gloves. The tips of his fingers have begun to turn slightly purple, the nails darkening. He makes fists with his hands and squeezes, trying to return some of the feeling. 

“I really miss you. I miss you like the sun misses the moon.” He laughs ruefully. “That came out more poetic than I meant it. But you know what I mean. The way we’re doomed to forever chase after someone we can never touch again… I miss you the way the ground misses the sky, the way water misses fire.” He pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he stands. Slowly, he wanders over to another headstone, picking up one of the pomegranates that’s lying on the ground. Idly, he tosses it up in the air a few times, catching it in his palm as it falls. Up and down, up and down. It makes a hollow sound as it smacks against his palm, and some juices escape from a crack in the outer shell. They roll down the skin of his palm, leaving red trails that almost look like blood. 

“Do you remember when we were little, and we would go outside on those hot summer nights, and catch fireflies to put in a jar? The way they would glow like stars, but within a few days, their light would fade and all you had left was a jar of dead bugs. They weren’t meant to last.”

He turns back towards Aiden’s headstone, setting the pomegranate down in front of it. He doesn’t bother to wipe his hands off. “You were the same, I think. You burned too fast, too bright, and I was never meant to have you for long.” He sinks back down into a seated position and puts his head in his hands. There’s a long pause. A bird calls in the distance.

(It begins to pour out of him, everything that he’s kept locked away this past year. His therapist would be proud.)

“I hate you, you know. I hate you for burning out, for leaving me here, all alone in the dark. You don’t know what it’s like to live without your best friend. I keep turning around, thinking you’re going to be right next to me. I talk to you, too. Last week at the grocery store, I asked you if you wanted any peanut butter, and then I remembered that you’re gone, and you’ll never come grocery shopping with me again. It’s so stupid and it makes me so mad.” He wants to yell, to scream. He wants to cry.

“I hate you for leaving me to wake up alone in cold sheets, for leaving me to face everything alone. I hate you for leaving me scrambling, trying to piece everything back together again. You broke it, Aiden. You took a hammer and smashed everything to pieces. And then you just disappeared and left me to pick up all the pieces and put them back together again.

“But I can’t, really. I have all the pieces but they just don’t fit anymore.” He takes a long, shuddering breath. “I can’t fit them all together again, and I don’t know what to do. I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with you. We were supposed to grow old together.”

He stands up. “Why am I even talking to you? This is stupid. You can’t hear me. You can’t do anything. You’re dead,” he spits out, and then has to sit down again.

He sits there for a long time. He’s the only one in the cemetery. The wind picks up a bit, biting at his nose and ears and exposed fingers. He shivers and wraps his jacket tighter around himself. Above him, a flock of blackbirds wheel in the sky, like a school of fish in the sea. They loop around each other, falling in and out of complex patterns that only hold meaning for them.

Eventually he stands up and looks down at the headstone one last time. The quote Aiden’s father chose for it always bothered him.  _ And, lovely, learn by going where to go.  _ It always seemed awfully pretentious. The sort of thing that an old man would tell his grandchild.  _ Learn by going where to go.  _

Harvard doesn’t know where to go. 

(He doesn’t really know anything anymore.)

He says one last goodbye, directing his words to the space above the stone, where, if he squints, he can almost imagine he can see the faint outline of a person. Feathery hair, a knowing smirk, eyes like the leaves on the trees outside Castello Hall in spring. He says his farewell to Aiden Kane, knowing that he isn’t really saying goodbye, because he can’t let go. He still hoards his memories like a dragon hoards it’s gold. 

He turns and leaves, the flowers and the pomegranate still resting in front of the chunk of rock that is all that remains of the memory of his best friend. 

There’s a familiar figure waiting for him at the gate. Two, actually. Kally and Tanner take him by the elbows and guide him out of the cemetery, away from the only person he ever fell in love with. They hold his hands and rub his back and whisper softly in his ears. 

(And as Harvard leaves, three hundred and sixty-five days after Aiden Kane took his last breath, he begins to cry.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ... i have nothing to say for myself
> 
> headstone quote from the waking by theodore roethke
> 
> tumblr: @harvard-said-no


End file.
